McKay didn’t respond as the building’s warning system suddenly started chirping. A moment later, Gonz came in. McKay stood and they stared at each other for a few moments. Then Gonz looked at Peterson. “Got all phones traced, right?”
Peterson nodded. “Yes, sir. Looks like they’re all turned off, though.”
Gonz already had his camouflage Army shirt off and was now peeling off the Kevlar vest. McKay quickly went to him.
“I’m fine,” Gonz told her, waving her off. But McKay stood before him, waiting.
Heisman came in, ripping off his bullet proof vest and carrying two bottles of water in one of his large hands. Gonz gingerly removed his vest, pain etched on his face. His T-shirt underneath was soaking wet. Heisman put one of the bottles on the desk close to Gonz.
“Take your shirt off,” McKay told Gonz.
“Nothing from Ghaniyah?” Gonz asked her, grabbing the water.
“She said she’d call in an hour.” She glanced at her watch. “That was around ten. So she’s what.? Two and a half hours late. Take off the shirt.”
Gonz ignored her, unscrewing the bottle top and greedily drinking the water.
“Next war, I vote for somewhere cold,” Heisman said. Like Gonz, the T-shirt that he had worn underneath the heavy vest was soaked with sweat.
“Always take on Russia,” Gonz said.
“The shirt,” McKay firmly told Gonz.
Gonz finally obliged, peeling the shirt over his head and revealing his chiseled torso. An ugly welt was clearly visible just below his left breast. McKay carefully felt it with her fingers. Gonz tried his best to ignore her pokes and looked at Peterson. “We can’t call those numbers? Have Heisman do the talking?”
“They’re not on,” Peterson replied. “At best you get voice mail. If they have it.” He sighed. “I hate this. Just waiting.”
He wasn’t the only one. The entire team was greatly frustrated. The truth was, no one knew exactly how they should play Ghaniyah when, or if she ever called back. If they told her the truth, that al Mudtaji had taken Adnan, she would go right directly to her brother in order to save Adnan. Which would probably end up with both of them dead and the ricin in al Mudtaji’s hands.
The Marines had transported Adnan’s family to a hospital and were staying with them until their release. Then the family would come to the Green Zone where they would be given round-the-clock protection.
Heisman glanced at Gonz. “We could try to bait them that way. Leave a message.”
“It’s an idea,” Gonz agreed.
“We don’t know if they have voice mail,” Peterson impatiently retorted. “Or if they do, if they’ll listen to it, or when.”
“Probably the sixth rib is broken,” McKay finally announced. “Need an x-ray.”
“No point,” Gonz scoffed. “If it is cracked, there’s nothing to be done anyway.” Again he looked to Peterson. “We got the best technology known to man. And we got the six numbers.”
“Which won’t do us a bit of good if no one uses them,” Peterson retorted.
“So? Give me some ideas.”
Peterson seemed to mull this over. Finally he said, “Our best chance is Ghaniyah herself. She has to call again.”
“Yeah, but she’s timing this,” McKay stated. “No call is longer than three minutes.”
“Then lie,” Peterson said. “Tell her something about her boyfriend so that she forgets to hang up. Or wants to know more so bad, she ignores the three minute rule.”
“Like what?” Gonz asked.
“I dunno.”
“Maybe just keep it simple,” Heisman offered. “Tell her that Adnan will be tried for the ricin, we know about her past with some other chemist that was making ricin, and we believe he’s the maker of it. She wants to prove his innocence, she has to come in.”
McKay shook her head. “She’s smart. She’ll know that we can’t prosecute without evidence. If she has the ricin, she has the evidence. It’ll just drive her farther away.”
“I agree,” Gonz said.
“I know!” Peterson suddenly volunteered. “She knows her boyfriend was hurt in the missile attack, right?” He looked at McKay, excited. “You told her, but that’s all she knows. She hung up, saying she’d call back. So when she does, you say he’s in the hospital with some kind of head trauma. Or a coma.” No one said anything, so Peterson asked, “He could be in a coma, couldn’t he?”
“I suppose...”
“You’re the doctor. Use all those big words. Say that... He’s in the hospital. He’s in coma, so he can’t talk.”
McKay and Gonz exchanged glances. McKay slowly smiled at Peterson. For a computer geek, he was actually pretty smart.
Baghdad, Iraq – Sunday, April 16th ~ 12:56 p.m.
Ghaniyah unlocked the truck and climbed into the passenger seat, her feet stepping on the suitcase. She had taken the truck keys from the driver when they had pulled into the parking lot of the small café just minutes earlier. With Abasah complaining of hunger and Ghaniyah unsure where they would go now that they were in the city, she had decided it would be wise to break for food. Ghaniyah had also been desperate to relieve her bladder and had immediately headed for the restroom. She had worried about leaving the sacks of poison unattended, but she knew she couldn’t walk into the restaurant restroom with a suitcase. It would cause too much attention. So she had taken the keys and carefully locked the truck.
While she had been in the bathroom, the driver and girl had found a table inside. Abasah had never eaten in a restaurant before, and in her excitement had pestered the driver with endless questions. How many cooks were there? How did the restaurant know how much food to have? What if everyone that came in ordered the same dish? What would happen then?
Ghaniyah had then given the driver some cash and told him to order her some food to go. She would be waiting in the truck. Then she had asked for his watch again. Although she had told McKay she would call back in one hour, nearly two hours had since passed. She had purposely given the doctor more time hoping that she could finally talk to Adnan.
She turned on the satellite phone and dialed the same number. Carefully monitoring the second hand on the watch, she heard just one ring before McKay answered, saying “This is McKay.”
Ghaniyah’s heart raced. “Where is he?”
“Ghaniyah?”
“Where’s Adnan?”
“He’s in the hospital,” McKay calmly told her. “Yesterday there was an attack in the Green Zone.”
“Yes, yes,” Ghaniyah said in a dismissive tone. “I saw it on the news.”
“And you saw Adnan get in an ambulance...?”
“I told you that, yes,” she said impatiently.
“He had a head injury, Ghaniyah. A very serious head injury.” After a moment’s silence the American doctor continued. “Did you see the blood on his shirt? That was from a head wound. He was taken to the hospital and stitched up, but it was more serious than first thought. He has what’s called TBI – traumatic brain injury.”
The doctor was still talking, but Ghaniyah had suddenly tuned her out. Her mind raced. Traumatic brain injury? What did this mean?
Then she heard, “Ghaniyah, you there?”
“He’s in the hospital?” Ghaniyah finally managed to ask.
“And he will be for some time. Head injuries are very tricky, I’m not going to lie to you. In his case, he had a subdural hematoma... He had bleeding in both the frontal and temporal cerebral lobes...”
MP-5, The Green Zone, Baghdad, Iraq Sunday, April 16th 12:58 p.m.
McKay kept her head down as she paced, the phone to an ear. “The frontal lobes are very important and are needed for everything from speech and swallowing to basic cognitive function...”
She glanced at Gonz who stood behind Peterson’s desk, waving his hand in a circular motion. Keep it up. “Right now, Ghaniyah, he’s in what’s called a medically induced coma. That means the doctors want him unconscious for his own good. The bleeding
has been stopped, and they will evaluate his progress on a day-to-day basis...”
“Bada bing, bada boom, baby!” Peterson whispered triumphantly.
“You got it? Where? Where is she?” Gonz asked in a hushed voice, leaning over Peterson’s chair.
McKay quickly walked further away, so Ghaniyah wouldn’t be able to overhear them.
“Just need a few more seconds...” Peterson answered.
Gonz caught McKay’s eye and again motioned for her to keep talking.
“The good news is that right now we see no signs of bilateral weakness or paralysis,” McKay continued. “That can happen with subdural hematomas in this region of the brain...”
“Baghdad. Southwestern quadrant...” Peterson quietly declared.
“Ghaniyah?” McKay suddenly asked in a loud voice from across the room. “Ghaniyah? Ghaniyah!?”
Peterson quickly checked the computer. “She’s gone! But we got her! Pulling up the exact coordinates now...”
The printer started to hum.
Gonz looked at McKay who trudged back toward him, clearly drained. “You did good.”
“Yeah?” McKay asked, disheartened. “Then why do I feel like shit?”
Chapter Twenty-Four
Baghdad, Iraq Sunday, April 16th 1:39 p.m.
The crowd was primarily Shiite, strong supporters of the cabinet minister who now held the 121st seat of Parliament and served as a prominent leader in the country’s new National Assembly. The parliamentary leader, a staunch advocate of their fledgling democracy, had been scheduled to speak on the grassy quad of the university over an hour ago, and the large audience was now growing restless.
Aref, anxious to hear the upcoming speech, had arrived a good hour before the scheduled speech time and taken up a position on the grass very close to the dais. The politician had resonated with many Iraqis, not only the Shiite, because he was often quoted as saying that Iraq was a nation only as strong as her people – and that it was the people who would decide if this new democracy was to lay the foundation of freedom for centuries to come, or end up as a footnote in the chronological history of what occurred after the fall of Saddam Hussein.
With both his eyesight and hearing not always up to par, Aref had wanted to be as close as possible so he wouldn’t miss a word. He had also brought his poster, which he felt certain the elected official would appreciate if he saw it. Although the speech was now considerably behind schedule, he was content to patiently wait. On the dais, a man stepped up to the microphone, tapped it a few times and then said, “Testing, one, two three. Can you hear me in the back there?”
A thunderous chorus of shouts affirmed the crowd could easily hear. As the crowd gradually quieted, the loud din of two helicopters overhead filled the air. Seen approaching from more than a kilometer away and flying low, Aref’s first thought was that one of helicopters was transporting the cabinet minister to the university. But as the helicopters quickly advanced he could see that they were military Black Hawks, powerful fighter aircraft seen daily flying over the city. As they passed overhead, the noise deafening, he craned his neck back to stare at the monstrous black bellies of the helicopters where two large pylon mounted rockets attached to each side of the fuselage.
A moment later they were gone.
Somewhere Over Baghdad, Iraq Sunday, April 16th 1:42 p.m.
“Twelve minutes,” Captain Kelso announced through the radio system integrated into their helmets.
Heisman, wearing full combat gear including padded gloves and a flight helmet, sat directly behind the Army pilot. He didn’t bother to respond to the pilot’s ETA. As the Black Hawk suddenly banked to the left, he watched through the large window as the last few buildings of the university began to blend in with the rest of the city. They passed over a large mosque, its gold-leaf turret glistening in the sun.
The helicopter leveled out again, and Heisman felt himself give a sigh of relief. The truth was, he hated flying. In America, or anywhere else for that matter. But he really hated flying in Iraq. Too many SAMs – surface to air missiles – had hit their marks on Coalition aircraft, bringing them down like heavy stones. No survivors. Almost every damned time. No survivors.
He knew it was a matter of control. In a Humvee, even if he wasn’t driving, he knew with a moment’s notice he could take control. He could take over the wheel, drive away from danger. On the ground, he could find cover or improvise on the fly. But in the air, he not only had to rely on the two pilots up front, but he couldn’t take over for them if they were hit. He was a sitting duck and hated it.
He tried to tell himself he was in good hands. These Army pilots had extensive training in flying low over urban areas with zero visibility. Today, they could see for miles. And the equipment was top rate. The Black Hawks had seen plenty of wartime missions, everything from infiltration behind enemy lines and Medevacing wounded soldiers from the battlefield to heroic rescue operations over land and sea, often operating in terrible weather conditions.
Besides, they weren’t alone. Directly behind them, off to their left was the other helicopter, its job to provide cover should they come under attack.
“Heisman, you copy?” he heard Gonz ask through the radio.
“Roger, five by five,” Heisman replied.
“No signal. Repeat, still no signal.”
Heisman felt a tinge of disappointment, but was hardly surprised. Ghaniyah had only turned on the cell when she made a call. Who knew if she would even use the phone again?
“Roger, still no signal,” Heisman repeated.
“We got ground backup heading to the location now. Ten minutes out. Repeat, ten minutes out.”
“Roger, that.”
Heisman knew that they were looking for a needle in a haystack. If they were extremely lucky, Ghaniyah was holed up in the target building and had been making all her phone calls from that location. More likely however, since she seemed to know the three minute tracing rule, she was moving around. The question was, was she alone or with someone else? Was she in a car or on foot?
“One minute out,” Captain Kelso relayed.
“Target coming up at your ten o’clock,” the co-pilot declared.
Heisman looked out the window to his left. City streets and buildings. Nothing that stood out.
The co-pilot studied a handheld GPS system and pointed below, “Single story white building. Air conditioner on the roof at three o’clock.”
Heisman scanned the buildings. Then he saw it. Just as the co-pilot had described. “Got it!” he confirmed to the pilots.
“We’ll get you directly over the target,” Captain Kelso said calmly. “Standby...”
Heisman could see people on the street stare at the massive military helicopter as it slowly descended straight down. Talk about a sitting duck.
“Move into position now...!” the co-pilot shouted.
Heisman quickly unbuckled his safety harness and moved over to the right side of the helicopter. He sidestepped a large coil of rope and opened the cargo door. Warm air rushed in. Looking below, he realized they were hovering just about thirty feet over the top of target building. He double-checked that the rope’s massive fastener was securely clipped onto the large round eye-hook mounted to the floor, and dropped the rope over the side.
The helicopter hovering in place, the co-pilot turned in his seat, looking over his shoulder at Heisman and shouted, “You’re a go..!”
Heisman unhooked the electronic cable to the helmet, cutting off communication to the pilots. Under the co-pilot’s watchful gaze, he gave a thumbs-up, then grabbed a hold of the rope and let himself drop over the edge.
Baghdad, Iraq Sunday, April 16th 1:44 p.m.
“I want to go home,” Abasah whined again.
Both Ghaniyah and the driver ignored her, the driver concentrating on negotiating the traffic, Ghaniyah trying to figure out what to do. All she knew was that she wanted as much distance between herself and the café as possible. Once she had realized that
she had been on the phone for nearly four minutes, she had immediately disconnected the line and turned off the phone. She had then dashed back into the café, telling the driver they needed to leave immediately. This had upset the girl no end since they had just gotten their food. Fortunately, the waitress overheard her and quickly arranged to have the food put in Styrofoam packages. Ghaniyah hadn’t wanted to waste another precious moment, but she forced herself to be calm, telling herself that even if the Americans could tell where she was, it would take time for them to get to the area. Once the food was put in containers, she had then given the waitress a respectable tip in appreciation, and minutes later they were safely in the truck heading north again.
“I want to go home,” Abasah repeated.
“Eat your food.”
“I’m not hungry. I want to go home.”
“You jumped in here,” Ghaniyah sternly reminded her. “I didn’t ask you to come.” Glancing at the driver who was now studying her, Ghaniyah turned away.
Jadida, Iraq Sunday, April 16th 1:46 p.m.
Fadhil was the first to see Maaz enter the newspaper offices followed by Daneen holding Badr. He leaped up to greet him, hesitating for a moment as he saw the extensive bruising on Maaz’s face, then wrapping him up in a warm bear hug. Only then did he notice the three Marines who kept a respectful, but protective distance around the family.
“Faris?” Maaz asked.
Fadhil nodded toward Dr. Lami’s office where they could see Faris through the glass partition. He was sitting in the publisher’s plush leather chair, concentrating on the computer as he tried to use the mouse.
Daneen hurried into the office and a moment later she was tightly clutching both her sons. She pulled away from Faris, tenderly touched his face and then gathered him in her arms again, holding him tight.
Seven Days From Sunday (MP-5 CIA #1) Page 26